by Gail Donovan
Mr. White nodded. “And you’re already pretty busy, aren’t you? Green Team. Paleo Pals. How do you think Paleo Pals is going?”
Finch couldn’t resist. “Awesome!” he said, spinning in a complete circle.
“Good,” said Mr. White, giving him a funny look, as if he knew Finch was making fun of him. “Any ideas for how it could be better? Activities you’d like to do? Maybe a field trip?”
Finch stopped spinning and swiveling, and worrying about Awesomeraptor on the prowl, and blurted out exactly what he thought. “Dinosaur State Park!”
“Dinosaur State Park,” echoed Mr. White. “Sounds like an awesome idea. I’ll pencil it in for next fall, see if I can make that happen.”
On Friday, he got a chance to hang out with Noah, just the two of them. If Noah wanted. Finch wasn’t sure what to think, ever since his mom had explained about the grown-ups swapping child care. He knew what he thought: Noah was his best friend. But what did Noah think? Finch couldn’t imagine actually asking him. That’d be weird. But maybe he could find out.
“Hang out?” he asked Noah after school. Their usual shorthand. No need to bother with full sentences.
“Duh,” said Noah.
Finch grinned. Question answered. That’s what he liked about being friends with Noah. You got to the bottom of things in about one second.
“My house?”
“Can’t,” said Noah, shaking his head. “Dog patrol.”
Noah spent half the week with his mom and Penny the poodle, and half the week with his dad and Rozzy the chocolate doodle. But no matter which house Noah was going to, he might be on dog patrol, because both dogs were old. The kind of old where they would have an accident if they were left in the house too long.
“Okay, yours,” agreed Finch.
He walked alongside Noah under a hot blue sky. Other kids were walking, too. Little kids with grown-ups, and older kids by themselves. Block by block, kids peeled off, down side streets. Finally, they got to Noah’s house.
Finch dropped his backpack and got ready for a big chocolate doodle slobber. But nobody jumped up to slobber him. Rozzy lay on her bed in the corner of the kitchen, thumping her tail on the floor.
Finch knelt down and scratched Rozzy in her favorite scratching spot, behind her ears. “What’s the matter with her?”
Noah’s face was scrunched up, like he was trying not to cry.
“The usual,” he said. “She’s old. It’s just gotten worse in the last few days.” He got up and held open the door. “Come on, Rozzy.”
Rozzy turned her big brown eyes to Noah with a look that said I can’t.
Noah came back over to the dog’s bed and grabbed two corners. “Come on, help me.”
Finch got the other two corners. Together, they managed to tug the cushion—with Rozzy atop—outside. They set it down on the grass. Rozzy rose and walked shakily a few feet away to pee, then wobbled a few more feet and lay down.
Finch and Noah lay on the lawn, too. Not going anywhere. Overhead, the blue sky was broiling hot. Underneath, the green grass was cool. Finch felt like the filling in a sky–grass sandwich.
He didn’t know why he said what he said next. It just popped out.
“My grandmother’s old. She had to go live somewhere else.”
“They should have, like, doggy nursing homes,” said Noah.
“They should,” agreed Finch, knowing that they didn’t. When dogs got this old and this sick, they didn’t go to a nursing home. They went to the vet. And they didn’t come back.
His grandmother wasn’t coming home, either. And someday Guppy might leave, too. And then their house would be sold. He couldn’t imagine it. Some other family living there. During Green Team he went around visiting his old classrooms, but who cared that new kids were there now? He had moved on.
He had never imagined moving on from the house in Maine, though. He’d thought that was forever.
Just as Finch was thinking that he didn’t want to think about forever anymore, or dogs—or people—getting old, Noah asked, “Want to see my toes?”
Which was a perfect Noah thing to say.
“Definitely,” said Finch.
Noah kicked off his shoes and lifted a foot up in the blue sky. The fourth toe and the pinky toe were stuck together.
“What did one toe say to the other toe?” asked Finch, like he always did, and together they delivered the punch line: “Stick with me!”
17. Trick Question
One week of June melted into another. Inside Acorn Comprehensive, teachers were teaching as fast as they could, trying to wrap things up before the end of the year. Outside, the grass was growing like crazy. Grown-ups kept cutting it, filling the air with the roar of mowers mowing and the smell of grass, and lopping off the dandelions’ yellow heads. But the dandelions kept growing right back, popping open in the sun.
Finch was outside, running in circles around his mom, who was mowing the lawn. His bare feet were turning green from the grass. It was the Sunday before the second-to-last week of school. And the very last one wasn’t even a full week; this was the home stretch!
“Finch!” called his dad from the back porch.
Finch didn’t feel like stopping. He waved and kept circling the yard, his feet turning greener and greener.
People used to think dinosaurs were green, like alligators. Or maybe brown. But nobody really knew. They might have had feathers. They might have been red, or blue, or yellow. Or maybe they were green. That was one of the things he wanted to find out, when he was a real paleontologist.
“Finch!” called his dad again.
The sound of the mower stopped.
“Finch,” said his mom. “Your dad’s calling you!”
“I can’t stop!” shouted Finch, still running, “I have green feet! I’m out of control!”
“Less running, Finch,” said his dad. “More stopping. Now.”
There was something in his dad’s voice that Finch didn’t like. Finch’s mom must not have liked it either. She left the mower in the middle of the yard and followed Finch over to the back porch.
Finch’s dad was holding his phone. “I got an email from Mrs. Adler,” he said.
“Unfair!” groaned Finch.
His parents had told him what it was like when they were kids. First of all, they weren’t the kind of kids teachers sent notes home about. But if they had been, the notes would have gone home in the kid’s lunchbox. Or, if they were extra important, they would have been delivered by the mailman. Either way, a message from the teacher wouldn’t pop up on a Sunday afternoon, when you were trying to turn your feet green.
“She says you haven’t handed in a lot of work.”
“What?” asked Finch’s mom.
Peering at his phone, Finch’s dad read aloud, “Finch is missing a number of assignments, including his twelve-times test, his You Were There in Colonial Connecticut essay, and his acrostic poem. He should know that if he fails to complete all his work there will be consequences.”
“What kind of consequences?” asked Finch’s mom.
“Well, a bad grade, obviously,” said Finch’s dad, still staring at the message on the phone. “Also, not being allowed to go on the class trip.”
“What?” cried Finch. “She can’t do that!”
Finch’s brother pushed open the back door and came outside. “Can’t do what?”
“Stop me from going on the fifth-grade trip!”
“She stopped Aidan Doyle from going when I was in her class,” said Sam. “He had to spend the day with Mrs. Stuckey in the office.”
“But what’s going on?” asked his dad. “Why haven’t you handed in these assignments?”
“Dad, I’ve been really busy!” said Finch.
“Busy?” asked his mom. “Doing what?”
Uh-oh. Trick
question. Finch had been busy. Just not busy doing homework. He felt frozen, which hardly ever happened, because he wasn’t a guy who froze. He was the guy who couldn’t stop bouncing off the walls.
Still frozen, Finch hadn’t answered his mom’s question, which was usually a big no-no. But now his parents began talking to each other as if he wasn’t even there.
“I thought this year was going okay, wasn’t it?” asked his dad.
“I thought so, too,” agreed his mom. “Ever since Mrs. Davison got him his special seat.”
“And Mrs. Adler said his work met the standard, at our last conference, remember?”
“He was meeting the standard.”
There were three grades you could get. Exceeds the standard. Meets the standard. Needs improvement.
In kindergarten, Finch hadn’t needed any improving. Kindergarten was just Mrs. Murphy, letting kids “dance their wiggly-jigglies out.” If another grown-up came around it was for something fun, like art.
It wasn’t until first grade that the teacher decided he wasn’t meeting the standard. That’s when he learned about special services. And it wasn’t that he didn’t like Mrs. Hunter, the speech therapist, or Mrs. Davison, the occupational therapist. He just didn’t like leaving the classroom, where his friends were. Which was why he liked the bouncy seat Mrs. Davison got him at the beginning of the year. Bouncing was as good as digging. Bouncing helped him “settle down.” By the time parent–teacher conferences came around in November, he had gone from needs improvement to meets the standard. And then all the extra help had stopped. Which was fine by Finch.
“And now he clearly isn’t doing well,” said his dad. “Which makes me wonder. Maybe they shouldn’t have stopped all the services he was getting.”
“We’ve talked about this,” said his mom. “Teachers don't usually recommend services for kids who are doing okay. They need to be struggling, which Finch isn’t anymore. Or wasn’t. Until now.”
“I’m not struggling!” blurted Finch. “I don’t need extra help!”
His parents stared at Finch like they’d forgotten him. In the silence, they could hear the jingle-jangle sound of the ice-cream truck cruising the neighborhood.
“Can we get ice cream?” asked Sam. “Mom, can we? Last time you said no, but you said that next time we could. This is next time, right? So, can we?”
As usual, Sam was trying to get the attention away from Finch and onto him. Which for once, Finch didn’t mind. He flashed his brother a grateful smile. Distraction! Changing the subject! Nice.
Sam being nice gave Finch a good feeling. A warm, dandelion-springing-back-in-the-sun feeling.
Turning to his parents, he said, “Hey, less frowny faces! More smiley faces!”
A funny noise started coming out of Sam. He was hooting with laughter.
Finch’s parents were not laughing.
“I am not amused,” said his mom.
“Neither am I,” said his dad. “And neither is Mrs. Adler. She says you have until the end of the week to hand in the missing assignments, or no trip.”
“It’s not that big a deal,” said Sam, coming back to his defense. “All we did was go to the water park, and all the picnic tables had bees. And Asa Steinberg got stung and he was allergic and had to go to the hospital.”
Grateful, Finch chimed in. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “I don’t care if I miss the trip.”
“Does it say where they’re going this year?” asked Finch’s mom.
“Let’s see,” said Finch’s dad, scrolling through the note from Mrs. Adler. “Oh, no!”
He stopped talking and made a face. Definitely not a smiley face. More of a frowny face. But not a mad frowny; more like a shocked-and-scared frowny.
“What?” asked Finch.
“I think you’ll want to go on this trip,” said his dad.
“Go where?” demanded Finch. “Dad, where are we going?”
18. F for Fidgeter
“Dinosaur State Park,” said Finch’s dad.
“Dinosaur State Park!” shouted Finch.
He took a giant leap off the back porch and ran around the yard once. Then he ran all the way around again. And again. Finch hadn’t been there for a year, ever since they closed for renovations. They’d had the fossil tracks of a dinosaur, and who knew what else they might have by now?
“Finch!” called his mom, waving him in.
Finch circled back to the porch.
“Dinosaur,” he said, panting. “State. Park.”
“Yes,” said his dad. “Like Mrs. Adler said—if you finish all your work.”
Iffosaurus. If you had been listening. If you had thought of that. If you finish all your work.
“That’s not fair,” said Sam. “Finch would want to go there more than anyone. He’s the president of Paleo Pals!”
“Life isn’t always fair,” said his dad, and began to launch into his lecture on fairness.
Life wasn’t fair, if by “fair” you meant that everybody got treated the same way. Some people had it harder than others. Some people had it easier. That was life.
But it was fair, if by “fair” you meant that there were consequences for not following the rules. That was the essence of fairness.
“Dad, stop!” said Finch. “I know all that already.”
“Well, I hope you know we’re on your side,” said his mom. “We really hope you can go. But it’s up to you.”
“Mom, I know!” said Finch.
“And do you know what you have to do?” asked his dad.
“Dad, I know!”
“Well, do you think you can do it?”
Another trick question: Could he do all his homework? He couldn’t tell his parents No, because then he’d be in trouble for not even trying. But he couldn’t tell them Yes, because the truth was, he didn’t know. It was a lot of work. Plus, he had a lot of other stuff to get done. He tried slipping in between Yes and No.
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
That’s what grown-ups always said they wanted you to do: your best.
Apparently, they didn’t always mean it.
“Your best?” roared his dad. “I don’t want to hear any nonsense about you doing your best! Just get it done!”
“Okay, okay!” said Finch.
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll do it!”
“Good,” said his dad, pointing to the back door. “You can start by getting cracking on that poem. Kitchen table. Now.”
Whoa—Finch’s dad hardly ever went all T. rex. Finch figured he better do what his dad said. He headed inside, got a pencil and a piece of paper, and sat down at the kitchen table.
The screen door opened and closed as his dad came into the house.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just cooking supper.”
Finch gave a whatever shrug. Because his dad couldn’t go all T. rex on him and then expect him to be friendly.
“We’re having roast chicken and mashed potatoes,” said his dad. “You like that, right?”
Staring down at the piece of paper, Finch gave another shrug and the tiniest answer possible. “I guess,” he said.
“Hey,” said Finch’s dad. “Listen, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I knew how much going to Dinosaur State Park would mean to you, and I guess I was scared you might miss out.”
Hearing his dad say Sorry made Finch feel funny. It made him feel the opposite of frozen, like he was melting. It almost made him want to say . . . everything. Say, I don’t need extra help, but somebody else does. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t going to give up now, just so he could go on the field trip.
“Bottom line,” said his dad, “I shouldn’t have raised my voice. That’s not going to help you write a poem, is it?”
Finch shook his head. No.
“A
ll right,” said his dad. “Supper’s in about half an hour. Let’s see if you can make some progress by then, okay?”
Finch picked up his pencil, and his dad began peeling potatoes. Outside, the roar of the mower started up again. It wasn’t fair. His dad liked cooking. His mom liked working in the yard. Grown-ups got to do whatever they wanted. Finch did not like writing poetry. Especially poetry about himself. He got up to sharpen his pencil. Then he sat down. Then he got up to put some cat food in Whoopie Pie’s bowl.
“Finch,” said his dad, with a potato in one hand and a peeler in the other. “Can you settle down and get to work?”
Finch sat down. He took a banana from the fruit bowl.
“Finch,” said his dad. “It’s almost supper.”
“Mom said fresh fruit was okay, no matter what. That’s the rule.”
Finch’s dad took a deep breath, like maybe he was trying not to turn into T. rex again.
“Mom did say that,” he admitted. “Okay.”
Victory! Finch ate the banana as slowly as he could. Then he got up to put the peel in the compost bucket.
Finch’s dad drew another big breath. “Here’s another rule,” he said. “Sit down. And sit still. For five. Whole. Minutes.”
“That’s not a rule,” argued Finch. “A rule is, like, for all the time.”
“True,” said Finch’s dad. “This is more like an order. Sit. Down. Now.”
Finch sat back down, picked up his pencil, and wrote the letter F. He tapped his pencil on the paper. F, F, F, F, F.
“Less fidgeting, Finch. More thinking,” said his dad.
That gave Finch an idea.
F was for Fidgeter, as in, Stop fidgeting!
Yes! One letter down, four to go. Except Finch didn’t think he could really use Fidgeter for his first word. Not in a real poem. But it was more fun to write a funny poem. A poem that didn’t count. Nobody ever had to see it, right?
Next letter: I. I was for . . . Impish! Finch remembered that word from a book his mom used to read to him. To be impish was to be like an imp—a little mischief maker.
Finch laughed out loud when he thought of the word for the letter N.
